


post-operative

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Caring Castiel (Supernatural), Caring Dean Winchester, Fluff and Humor, Gen, High Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Injured Sam Winchester, Loopy Sammy!!!, Surgery, Sweet Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:20:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: "Hold his hand and tell him he's pretty, Dean."An injured Sam wakes up from surgery to find some of his hair missing. Dean and Cas try to deal with the emotional fallout of a drugged Sam talking about forks and mourning his hair.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 39
Kudos: 249





	post-operative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinchesterPooja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinchesterPooja/gifts), [spnxbookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnxbookworm/gifts).

> this is just something short, sweet and light-hearted for my two girls winchesterpooja and spnxbookworm, who've been working tirelessly on their dcbb. i hope it provides some cheer and smiles <3
> 
> it was inspired by me spending a lot of time in ORs waiting for patients to go under, and then staying until they're awake. waiting for an hour or so in total + ORs + loopy people = this fic. i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

Sam has been out of surgery for about four hours when Castiel arrives. Dean looks up from his chair to find the angel standing awkwardly in the doorway to Sam’s room. “Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Hey,” says Dean, voice hoarse from disuse.

“How is Sam?” asks Cas, stepping inside the room and letting the door fall shut behind him. He takes up the second chair in the room, on the other side of Sam’s bed across from Dean.

Dean gives him a half-shrug. “Been out of surgery a while. He woke up a couple times in between, asked me where we keep the forks, and then passed out again.”

“The forks?” repeats Cas. “Why does he want to know where the forks are?”

“Beats me,” says Dean. “High as a kite, I guess. Doc said he should be fine, though. Eventually.” Despite the nonchalance in his tone, he’s worried; how can he not be, when his little brother’s in a hospital bed, pale and still?

“What happened?” Cas asks, squinting at Sam.

Dean lets out a heavy sigh. “Werewolf. Got the drop on him. He hit his head pretty hard, they had to do surgery and stuff.” He nods towards Sam’s head, where there is a fat pad of gauze taped to the left side.

“But he’ll be okay?”

“’S what the doc said, yeah,” answers Dean, but he’s not going to believe it till he sees it for himself.

They fall into silence after that. Dean hasn’t slept in several hours and it’s beginning to weigh on him, his eyelids heavy and thoughts slow, unfocused. But he can’t sleep, not until he knows Sam will be fine, not until he hears his brother’s voice and sees his eyes. Cas seems to understand; he doesn’t comment on Dean’s haggard appearance like he normally might have, and instead just shoots him a sympathetic look before settling back in his chair, clearly in it for the long haul along with Dean.

“You don’t have to stay,” Dean tells him. “I know you’ve got your own stuff—”

“I wish to stay,” Cas cuts in. “Sam is more important to me than any of my ‘own stuff’.”

Dean, who doesn’t know how to answer that, just nods and shoots Cas a tired smile and hopes it’s enough.

Some more time passes. Dean pulls out his phone from his pocket just to have something to do, and sighs when he realizes the screen is cracked. Must’ve happened on the hunt. Castiel remains sitting exactly the way he is, looking lost in his thoughts. Dean can’t tell if the expression on his face is a frown, or if he’s just ruminating on the mating habits of bees or something equally bizarre.

Once or twice Sam mumbles something in his sleep, and each time Dean leans in, barely disguising his hope as he whispers, “Sammy?” And each time Sam mutters “Where’s the fork, Dee?” before passing out again.

“What is with the forks?” sighs Dean the third time this happens. It’s probably going to be funny later on, or so he hopes. At the moment all it does it ratchet his anxiety up a little higher, because all he can think is _what if there’s something wrong with Sam’s brain_?

“Perhaps he is dreaming of them,” suggests Cas.

“Why would he be dreaming of forks?” demands Dean.

“You can ask him when he wakes,” Cas says.

“I don’t know, Cas, it’s worrying me,” Dean admits. “I mean, they operated on his head, man. What if—”

“Sam will be fine,” Cas interrupts before Dean can finish. “He is just… high as a kite, as you said.”

“Sure hope that that’s all it is,” mutters Dean, and slumps in his chair.

Sam chooses that moment to murmur something again, and Dean leans forward. “Please not the forks again,” he says, tilting his head as close to Sam’s as he can.

It’s not. Sam mumbles something inaudible, and then, to Dean’s overwhelming relief, opens his eyes. The color is muted and Sam’s gaze is unfocused, hazy, but… God. He’s _awake_.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” says Dean, and tries to smile. “I’m right here, buddy.”

“Hi,” Sam says, and gives him a dopey grin.

“Hi,” says Dean. “How you feelin’?”

“Fork,” declares Sam.

“Fuck me,” sighs Dean.

“Not an appropriate activity for a hospital room,” says Cas.

“You’d be surprised,” mutters Dean.

“Dean?”

Dean looks back down at Sam, who’s watching him through a drugged haze. “Yeah?”

“Water?”

“Yeah, okay.” He reaches across him for the glass of water on the bedside table, dunks a straw in it, and holds it up so Sam can sip at it. “Easy does it, Sammy.”

Instead of replying, Sam drinks his water, and then spits the straw out when he’s decided he’s done. “Wha’ ‘appened?” he finally asks, blinking blearily at his brother.

“Hit your head,” Dean tells him succinctly, putting the glass back. “Do you remember?”

“Remember the fork,” Sam answers. “Did we get it?”

“The fork?” Dean is three seconds from ripping his hair out. “What damn fork, Sammy?”

“The silver fork,” Sam answers, like it explains everything. To the drugged up idiot, it probably does.

“Silver fork?” Dean mouths to Cas, who shrugs.

“I just got here,” he says. “I do not know what he’s talking about.”

“The silver fork!” Sam says more insistently. “Gon’ kill the – the wolf w’the silver fork!”

“Sammy, we got the wolf,” Dean explains. “Remember?”

Sam shoots him a look.

“Right, you hit your head,” Dean mumbles. “’Course you don’t remember.”

“I remember the wolf,” Sam tells him. “And it – it _hit_ me.” He says it with such outrage that it makes Dean laugh.

“’S not funny!” Sam looks even more indignant now.

“Right, sorry, sorry,” Dean says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, man, it hit you. And then I got it.”

“W’the silver fork?” Sam asks hopefully.

“Nope, a silver bullet, like a normal person,” Dean answers. “Why would I use a fork?”

“’S pointy,” Sam says. “Four pointy.” Then he makes a thoughtful expression. “But some forks have three pointy.”

“Pointy?” Dean makes the mistake of asking.

“Pointy!” Sam says. “Fork!”

“I think he means that forks are pointy,” Cas pipes up.

“Yes, and?” Dean does not understand the – pun unintended – point here. At least Sam’s more or less okay, he thinks. Drugged out of his mind, but not brain damaged, thankfully, no more than usual.

“And some forks are pointier than others,” continues Cas serenely.

“Yes!” Sam says, and nods. Then he stops abruptly. “Why?” he asks Dean.

“Why what, Sammy?”

“M’head!” Sam raises a bandaged arm and pats at his own head before Dean can stop him. “Why’s m’head _big_?”

“You mean heavy?” Dean asks, gently taking Sam’s hand and pulling it away. He doesn’t let go of it, instead wrapping his fingers around Sam’s and squeezing lightly.

Sam nods.

“Probably ‘cause of the drugs,” Dean tells him, voice soothing. “You know they hadta operate on your head, kiddo. Make sure that big brain o’yours is okay, and all that.”

“Oh.” Sam purses his lips, looking thoughtful. Then he asks, “Did they put it back in?”

“Huh?”

“My brain,” Sam clarifies. “Did they put it back in?”

“Uh…” Dean looks at Cas, who is watching the exchange with fascination. “Uh. Yeah, I think they did, Sammy.” He gently taps at Sam’s forehead with his free hand. “Doesn’t sound hollow to me.”

“Good,” says Sam, and grins at Dean again. He looks all of three when he does that, sweet and uninhibited, and it makes something protective flare up inside Dean.

“Don’t you do that again,” he murmurs to Sam, leaning in so that his face is inches from Sam’s. “Don’t you scare me like that again, Sammy.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Sam tells him, smile fading. He pats Dean’s face with his free hand. “’M sorry.”

“Hey.” Dean squeezes his fingers. “Not your fault, man. It was that stupid wolf’s fault.”

“Shoulda stabbed him w’the fork,” Sam says, and Dean can’t help but grin.

“Yeah, should’ve,” he agrees.

“Is that really efficient, though?” Cas asks. “Would it not require more effort than a silver bullet?”

“No,” Sam says. “You just…” He weakly mimes a stabbing motion with his free hand.

“How do you intend on getting the fork through the sternum?”

“Pointy,” Sam tells him. “Fork. Pointy. ‘S not rocket science, Cas.”

“No, of course not,” sighs Cas. “What was I thinking?”

“Silly,” says Sam, and then giggles.

“He knows nothing,” Dean tells him, like it’s a secret.

“That is not true!” Castiel pipes up indignantly. “I know a great many things!”

“Like?” Sam wants to know.

Dean watches in amusement as Cas flounders, clearly searching for something to tell him. “Like… like…”

“You didn’ know forks’re pointy,” Sam says.

“I don’t eat, Sam,” Cas says. “I have no reason to be in regular contact with cutlery.”

“Fair,” says Sam. “Knives are also pointy. Spoons’re… round.”

“I would describe them as oval,” Castiel says.

“Thought you didn’t know cutlery,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow.

“Help me out here,” Cas hisses to him.

“Nope,” Dean says, popping the p.

“Why d’you need help?” Sam asks, turning his head so he can look properly at Cas. Then he stops again, as if something has just occurred to him. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam untangles his fingers from Dean’s and raises them to his head.

“You gotta stop touching—”

“Dean?” Fuck, he sounds upset.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s m’hair?”

“Uh…” Dean looks up at Cas again. Cas just gives him a beatific look that clearly reads _feel free to handle this one on your own_. Dean just rolls his eyes – _thanks a lot, Cas_ – and goes back to his little brother. “Sammy, they had to cut some of it off, man. So they could fix you.”

“How much of it?” Sam asks, prodding at the gauze taped to his head.

“Man, quit touchin’ that.”

“How much?” Sam asks, more insistently.

Dean grabs Sam’s hand again before Sam can rip the gauze off and see for himself. “Not a lot,” he soothes. “And it’ll grow back—”

But he’s forgotten to factor in Sam’s other hand, which Sam raises and feels along the gauze pad with. Dean watches, apprehensive, as Sam tries to gauge the amount of hair they’ve shaved off, his face falling with each passing second.

“’S _gone_,” Sam whimpers in the end, letting his hand fall to his side, and oh no, _oh no_, his eyes are wet.

“It’ll grow back,” Dean assures him again, trying not to panic. He can’t handle it when Sam looks so distraught, no matter what the context is. “It’ll be back before you know it, kiddo, just you see—”

“They took so much,” Sam says, sounding distressed.

“It’s really not a lot, Sam,” Cas tells him, patting his arm consolingly.

“_Is_!” Sam insists, lower lip trembling. “Dean!”

“Sammy—”

“’M not pretty anymore,” Sam says, and it should be funny. Normally Dean would be laughing his ass off, carefully committing the moment to memory for later usage as blackmail. This is the best ammunition he’s ever gotten in _decades_.

But there are tears in his little brother’s eyes, and his nose is red, and he looks genuinely upset, and all it does is break Dean’s heart. He’s exhausted, emotionally wrung out from dealing with Sam getting hurt, and then all that time he spent waiting while Sam was in surgery, and now this is the absolute last straw.

“Hey,” he says softly, letting go of Sam’s hand so he can touch his cheek. Sam turns his head to look at him, sniffling a little, and Dean can feel a lump in his throat at the sight of his brother being this upset. “Hey, Sammy, it’s okay, man,” he tells him, laying his hand flat against the side of Sam’s face. “You’re okay. That’s all that’s important.”

“But my hair,” Sam says, and a tear slips out.

“Hey, no, don’t cry, man—” Dean wipes it away with his thumb. “I promise I won’t make fun of you, okay?” He knows he’ll break that promise the moment Sam feels better, but it won’t hurt to lie right now. “And I’ll get you a beanie or something—”

“Why won’t you hold my hand?” Sam demands, interrupting.

“Huh? I was literally just holding your hand, man,” Dean replies, confused.

“But you stopped!” Sam says, sniffing. “Is it ‘cause I look funny?”

“You don’t look funny,” Dean lies.

Sam narrows his eyes at him.

“Okay, fine, you do, a little,” Dean amends. “But—”

“I look stupid,” Sam mutters, turning his face away.

“You don’t even know what you look like,” Dean points out, trying his best to reason with his drugged little brother.

“I think you look fine, Sam,” Cas tells him kindly. “Your hair will grow back, and you will be pretty again.”

That’s got to be the weirdest thing they’ve heard Cas say, thinks Dean with a snort.

Sam takes his amusement the wrong way, and to Dean’s horror his expression crumples further. “You’re laughin’ at me!” he accuses tearfully.

“Wha—no, Sammy, swear I’m not!” Dean says quickly, but the damage, it seems, is done.

“You are!” Sam insists, glaring through the tears. “You’re laughin’ at me ‘cause I look _stupid_ and you won’ even hold my hand!”

“Aw, Sammy,” sighs Dean, running a hand down his face. “Come on, kid, it’s not like that.”

Sam just sniffles again, nose bright red against his pale face.

“Quit cryin’, Sam, _please_,” Dean says, well-aware he sounds like he’s begging. “Come on, man, it ain’t that bad—”

“You’re lying,” Sam sniffs. “To – t’make me feel better. ‘S not _true_.”

“It is—” tries Dean, but is interrupted by Cas.

“Hold his hand, Dean,” the angel says seriously.

“What?”

“Hold his hand,” Cas repeats. “And tell him he’s pretty.”

“Come on, Cas,” says Dean incredulously.

“He won’ do it,” Sam tells Cas sadly, “’cause then it’ll be a chick flick, and tha’s _bad_.”

Cas pats Sam’s arm, and then looks up at Dean. “Do it, Dean,” he tells him, still totally serious. “Can’t you see he’s upset?”

“Of course I can!” Dean answers, outraged. “He’s my little brother, man!”

“Then comfort him,” Cas says simply. “Hold his hand and tell him he’s pretty, Dean.”

He’s trolling Dean, he’s got to be, thinks Dean as he stares at Cas. No way in hell is he _serious_. “You do it!”

“See?” Sam says to Cas. “Told you.” He bites his lower lip, looking like he’s trying not to cry.

God, this should not be breaking Dean’s heart the way it is. It should be funny, dammit. Right now. He’s pretty sure it’ll be funny in a couple days, but it should be funny _right now_.

“Sammy,” Dean says in the end, giving in. He reaches out and takes his little brother’s hand again. God, _anything_ to keep Sam from looking like that. “Please stop crying, man.” He puts his other hand back on Sam’s face, and wipes away stray tears. “Please. You know I can’t take it when you cry.”

“’M sorry,” Sam says again, turning his face further into Dean’s palm. “’M just sad ‘cause my hair’s gone and I look weird now.”

“But it’ll come back,” Dean reassures him, and smiles when Sam looks up hopefully at him. “It will, Sammy. You know your hair grows freakish fast anyway. It’ll be back before you know it.”

“Human hair grows at an average of half an inch per month,” Cas informs Sam, taking his other hand. “Your hair grows a little faster, at an average of almost an inch per month. It is currently at five inches, so your hair should be level in a few months.”

“See?” Dean says, grinning at Sam. “Cas did the math, Sammy.”

“You’re so _smart_,” Sam tells Cas, sounding awed. He looks so much like a child right now, tear tracks drying on his cheeks as he looks up at Cas in fascination.

“I did say I know many things,” Cas answers with a faint smile.

“Jus’ not ‘bout forks,” Sam says.

“Well, you can teach me when you’re better,” Cas says. “About the many different kinds of forks.”

“I dunno much ‘bout forks,” Sam tells him. “Just the four-pointy fork, an’ the three-pointy fork.”

“Google it,” Dean suggests.

“Yes!” Sam says, and grins like Dean’s discovered a new planet or something equally genius. “The Google knows… all the things.”

“You also know all the things,” Cas tells Sam seriously.

“Not as many as the Googles,” Sam says.

“But a lot, nevertheless.”

Sam’s grin widens into a yawn, and he closes his eyes, licking at his lips. “’M sleepy now,” he tells Dean, turning his face towards him. “Can I sleep?”

“Yeah, Sammy, ‘course,” Dean answers with a fond smile. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” hums Sam, opening his eyes to blink up at Dean. “Tired.”

“But you’re not sad, right?” Dean asks, wanting to make sure.

“You’re holding my hand,” Sam tells him, and smiles. “That makes me… not sad.”

Dean _melts_. “Aw, you’re killin’ me, kid,” he murmurs, patting the uninjured side of Sam’s head and running his fingers through the hair there. “Come on now, get some sleep.”

Sam nods. “Yes. Sleep. Sleep is nice.” He wraps his hand around Dean’s pinky, ring and middle fingers, and tugs. “Can you stay?”

“’Course, Sammy,” Dean tells him.

“And Cas?” Sam wants to know.

“Of course I’ll stay too, Sam,” Cas tells him gently. “After all, someone must look after the two of you as you rest.”

“Don’ you wanna nap?” Sam asks him, frowning.

“I do not need to,” Cas tells Sam. “However, you and Dean very much do.”

“Mm, okay,” Sam says. “’M gonna – gonna nap. Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna nap w’me?” Sam looks expectant.

“Sure, Sam,” Dean answers with a fond little smile. “Let’s nap.”

Sam smiles back, hazy but no less brilliant for it. “Okay,” he whispers, and then turns his head so that he’s facing Dean. “I love you, Dean,” he tells him.

Dean smiles wider, presses a thumb into one of Sam’s dimples. “Yeah, I know you do, sleepyhead.”

Sam’s smile fades a little. “Don’ you love me?”

“You know I do,” Dean tells him. The smile returns in full force, and on a whim Dean leans in and kisses Sam’s forehead gently. “More’n anything,” he adds, knowing he can always deny he said it if Sam still remembers this later.

“Me too,” Sam whispers, like it’s something just between the two of them, like they’re ten and six again and trading secrets under a blanket fort.

Dean smiles, and then yawns. “Come on,” he tells Sam, patting his cheek before withdrawing his hand and covering Sam’s with it. “Close your eyes, kiddo. Catch some Z’s.”

“So many Z’s,” Sam says, and lets his eyes fall shut. His fingers twitch a little between Dean’s hands, and Dean squeezes them reassuringly.

“Right here, Sammy,” he promises.

Sam smiles a little without opening his eyes. A second later, the lights go out, and Dean looks up to see Cas standing by the light switch next to the door. “Thanks,” he tells him as Cas sits back down and takes Sam’s other hand again.

Cas smiles at him. “You are welcome, Dean. Get some rest.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, and rests his head on the mattress by Sam’s shoulder without letting go of Sam’s hand. “Goodnight, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean glances at his brother one last time. Sam’s breathing has evened out, mouth slightly open in his sleep. He looks relaxed, peaceful, and around ten years younger, and inadvertently Dean smiles again before closing his own eyes. They’ll be all right, he thinks sleepily. And in the morning the doctors can confirm that Sam is okay, and then Dean can decide whether he’s going to use all the excellent blackmail material he’s accrued in the last half an hour.

For now, though, he sleeps, his brother warm and alive nearby, and Cas watching over the two of them as they rest.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought of it! i can be found on tumblr ([@thelegendofwinchester](http://chesterbennington.co.vu) as well :) 
> 
> love,  
remy


End file.
